Fragments of evil
by dingbatman
Summary: 400 years after the War of the Ring, Middle-Earth is a different place. Elves and Dwarves have passed into legend and mankind rules the world. But time heals no wounds, and a sinister plot is unfolding to return a long banished evil to the world


_**Fragments of Evil**_

400 Years after the war of the Ring, the Events chronicled in the Lord of the Rings.

Dislcaimer: I do not own LOTR, I am not Tolkien or any of his heirs. Or this would be published by a publisher and I would be rich!! ;)

The Nine Fingers tavern was alive with celebration. Joyful Gondorians hugged soldiers and showered them with drinks. People cheered as drinks were poured.

Tomorrow, they would mourn the dead, but tonight, they celebrated.

Officers smooth talked peasant girls.

Men put themselves with three thousand Easterlings versus him. Others modestly downplayed there own parts, portraying there comrades as courageous. Others dazzled the girls with tales of far off lands.

Beers were downed. Men coughed. Husbands fell tearful into the arms of their wives.

A man lurched forward, and with a surprised cry he emptied his stomach over the table. And his uniform. His sergeant would give him hell in the morning, but he didn't care. Tonight he was a hero.

On a table at the back, on his own, a figure sat. He downed the fifth ale of the night, and set the glass upon the table with a thump. Seeing a Gondorian uniform, women approached him, with flowers and smiles, he was a hero, seeing a silver Hilt of a Sword badge sewn on his upper arm, the shards of Narsil, a badge of Colonels Rank, some left, others approached, he was an officer, and a hero. He was a rich hero.

But when they saw his face, they backed off, he may be a rich , but he was a Haradrim hero. From Harad. Gondor's ancient enemies. Now a province of Gondor's Empire.

The Haradrim hero had sun-darkened skin, a legacy of his desert land. His eyes were dark and shifty, darting this way and that. He had the bedraggled look of a man who had slept rough, when he had slept at all, and the rough look of a man who had not shaved often.

Atlif, for that was the Haradrim heroes name, did not think of himself as a hero. He did not want a girl this night. He just wanted to wash away the memories of Rhûn, of death, of swords and steel and blood. He would drown them with beer. He would wash them away with ale. He would purify his mind with the drink of courage.

Back in Harad, he would have been cast out from his tribe for drinking beer. Outcast. The thought brought a bitter smile to his lips. Why would he fight for Gondor if he were not an outcast?

Atlif downed the sixth ale, slammed the mug down and left. He needed sleep.

Aaronsil, Defender of the White Tree, Emperor of Gondor, King of Minas Tirith, Lord of Rohan, Grand Mayor of the Shire, Grand Chief of the Haradrim, Ruler of Middle Earth, and Earl of Rhûn sighed and sat down upon his throne.

He looked like his father, they said, the same dark hair, brown eyes and weathered face.

His armies had just cemented his last title, Earl of Rhûn. The Easterlings, the people of Rhûn, had never accepted Gondor as their Leaders.

The latest rebellion had Butchered the Governor, an Easterling who sympathised with the Gondorians and his family, hadslaugteredthe Imperial Garrisonand had disrupted trade.

3000 men had died to restore order. And the survivors were getting drunk. Aaronsil sighed. His first conquest. His first note in the History Books. Nothing on his ancestors, particularly his great-grandfather, who had captured Rhun, and died with 20 Easterlings at his feet. Or his Ancestor, Aragorn 1st , who had been a Ranger, a man who wandered the wilds, and a commoner, who single-handedly reclaimed the Throne of Gondor, and united the Nations of the West. And the races. Elves and Dwarves, when such things dwelt in Middle Earth. Who had made a peace with Rhun and Harad, Gondor's enemies, and the Dark Lord's minions, a peace that had lasted a hundred years, until Alethor, fourth king of Gondor , faced war from them. After defeating them, he invaded Harad. Then Rhun. Unsuccessfully. And so began the Empire of Gondor. An Empire which covered Middle Earth, Near, Harad, Far Harad, and now Rhun. Or the parts of those lands that the men of the West had uncovered.

Now he had 300,000 more people to feed.

He sighed. He needed sleep.

Ulgi hissed for his men to be quiet. Technically, they weren't men, but Orcs. But he hissed for them to be quiet anyway.

Ulgi was short and stunted-like all orcs-with burned skin-like all orcs- and shark like teeth- like all orcs. His eyes, however, were not like other Orcs'. Though bright and lynx-like, they showed an intelligence that other Orcs' did not, and certainly had not, since the One Ring had been cast into the flames of Mt Doom, and with it, the might of Sauron, the Dark Lord and his Orcish servants.

Orcs had perished that day. The battle of the Black Gate. The battle that Aragorn, who was not yet king, had led the forces of the Men of the West to the Black Gates of Mordor, where the gates had swung open, and the host of the Land of Mordor, had marched out in their millions. It had seemed that they would swallow the army of mankind whole. But, it had all been a trick. It was a ploy, so that Frodo, and Samwise, the two Hobbits could sneak to mount Doom, and cast into its depths the Ring of Power, the One Ring, forged by Sauron himself, the one weapon that he had lacked. Sauron's life-force, his very powers of existence, had been bound to the ring.

When it had been unmade, so was Sauron. His body was unmade, his existence stamped out, his Soul cast into the abyss where he would lie chained for ever and ever, the power of the Orcs broken. The ground had opened beneath them and swallowed them whole, a handful had survived by fleeing. Those Orcs who had not been present had joined with the survivors of those who had, and they, as a race, had sworn revenge.

They crept through the Osgilliath forest. Osgilliath had been sacked during the War of the Ring. Twice. Many thought it haunted. A huge forest had grown over the vast land between Osgilliath and Minas Tirith. It was haunted too. Apparently.

Lieutenant Othguil stepped on a twig. SNAP!

"Stop," Ulgi hissed through pointed teeth.

He raised his eyes over the ridge.

The Osgilliath Forest garrison rose against him, a small stone castle. It was HIS garrison now.

"Clean your swords," he snapped, "And shut up. Ill cut the head o' the first one to talk till I SAY you talk,"

His Orcs pulled their swords from the bodies of the Gondorian soldiers.

Some started tearing at the remains with their hands. They were hungry.

"Stop it," Ulgi snapped, "Eat later, I'm tryin' ta concentrate,"

He sensed, he could feel the stone, feel its pull, feel it calling to him, it was near.

"Get the shovels," he snapped, "Start diggin' ."

He mopped his forehead. He did not need to sleep.

Chapter 2 will be up shortly please R&R,please don't flame me asthis is my firstfic, but constructive criticism is welcome.


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